


In My Beginning Is My End

by 1stLadyofSnark



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stLadyofSnark/pseuds/1stLadyofSnark
Summary: Short stories featuring our boy, Erik "Killmonger" Stevens.Open for requests.
Relationships: Erik Killmonger/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	In My Beginning Is My End

**Author's Note:**

> So, since the world’s a little topsy turvy right now, I started a new Instagram account, @ 1stLadyofSnark. The goal with it is to simply provide a bit of light in the darkness right now. I am also taking requests through the IG DMs since I have so much free time now, cause, social distancing and I don’t know how the hell to use Tumblr. There’s not much up yet, but I’d appreciate a follow (you can stalk me even).  
> @ 1stLadyofSnark

Erik’s left fist had a death grip on the steering wheel as he swerved through city traffic, his right was shoved just under the waistband of his tuxedo slacks, applying pressure. It was bordering on 8 o’clock in the evening, but traffic was not thinning out in the least, causing him to repeatedly jam his palm against the horn as his reckless driving continued. Admittedly, he had no regard for anyone else on the road in that moment. He needed to get home. He needed to get the fuck outta the city.

Jerking the wheel hard to the right, Erik steered the car onto the unpaved shoulder of the of the overcrowded two-lane highway. The engine revved as his foot increased pressure on the gas pedal. He checked his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. The coast seemed clear. He caught his own reflection in the mirror as he continued to increase the speed of the vehicle. His dreads were a floppy mess, falling down in his eyes. His face was dripping in sweat. He could feel his heart racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

His left hand left the steering wheel to sweep up his face, fingers spread wide and catching in his dreads as they reached his forehead, pushing the messy braids back up onto his head only for them to flop right back onto his forehead again. He kept a few hair ties tossed around the gear shift. When he reached for one, a sharp pain radiated from his right side. He winced and closed his eyes to steel himself against the nagging sensation.

Fuck, that shit hurt.

He huffed in frustration. How could he have been so stupid? The whole thing had been setup. From the moment he’d walked into that ballroom, there must have been at least five sets of eyes on him, waiting for him to eliminate his own target before they could set forward in eliminating him. He’d figured it out before he pressed the silencer on his own weapon into the old man’s back, wrinkling the jacket of his expensive looking tux. But he took his chances. No one was in his general proximity, and no one would be stupid enough to start firing at his black ass in the midst of that ritzy-glitzy-ass ball.

But he was wrong.

As soon as the bullet left his gun and the old man’s body slumped forward onto of the high tables where he’d been standing and shoving shrimp cocktail down his gullet just a moment before, Erik knew he was next. He’d underestimated how brazen these fucks were. Whoever had sent them obviously gave no fucks about making a scene, the red dot projecting square onto his chest was enough of indicator.

Chaos had erupted around him when he broke into a back handspring, knocking over a waiter with a tray full of champagne glasses. From that moment on, all he heard was the sound of bullets shredding everything around him, embedding themselves in the marble floor next to his feet as he ran.

He’d made it to his car, and it seemed like he was in the clear until…

Erik grimaced and swerved back onto the road, cutting off two cars as he crossed over a few lanes to make a sharp left. As gravity pulled the contents of the car over to the right from the speed of the turn, he could feel the pull in his side. With a safe distance finally between himself and the ball, he let his foot off the gas a hair, letting the car slow enough for him to look down at his wound. Bright red blood was already soaking through his crisp white dress shirt, through his fingers. There was so much blood that it was soaking down into his pants where the tails of his shirt were tucked.

He knew the bullet was still in there, he could feel it with every jolt the car made as he continued home. He just needed to get home so he could get the bullet out, then he’d come up with a plan.

VRRRB, VRRRB!!

His cell vibrated in the cup holder and he snatched it up to read the incoming text.

It was his girl, asking how the party was going. It was her coded way of asking if he had completed his task smoothly, if that old fucker was finally out of the equation.

He texted her back with bloody fingers smearing all over the screen. It was short, two words.

_Get home._

He threw the phone back into the cup holder and pulled at his shirt enough to untuck it from his pants. The small nickel-size hole in his gut pumped blood steadily with the beat of his heart. He wasn’t sure how far away his girl was, or if she was even off from work yet, but the more he was able to look at the wound, the more he realized he needed to work fast.

Work fast. Get home, get the bullet out, stop the bleeding, patch up the wound, throw some shit in a bag for both of them, and get the fuck outta Dodge. At least he had a plan.

By the time he pulled his car into the driveway, most of the right leg of his pants was soaked through with blood. He cut the engine and grabbed his keys. When he pushed the car door open and made to get out, he got a head rush.

Fuck.

He was losing too much blood. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the open car door and the roof of the car as he tried to let the wave of dizziness pass. It didn’t though, and it seemed like the longer he stood there, the harder it was to keep his head from swimming. He had to get moving. Fast.

He worked his hand over his keys and found the house key before even daring to let go of the car, then he make his way up the driveway to the front walk. When he finally reached the front door, he fumbled in the dark to get the key in the knob.

It took a few attempts before he got the door open. He didn’t even bother flicking on the lights in the foyer; he went right to the stairs, pulling himself up each step with the help of the railing. His body felt heavier by the second, it was a chore to get his feet to lift.

Once in the upstairs hall, Erik dragged himself along the wall to the bathroom, his bloody hand smearing along the wall on the way. He leaned against the bathroom door frame to steady himself while he reached inside to find the light switch. His head was still swimming, and it took a couple of passes before his fingertips finally ghosted over the switch. The sudden brightness only amplified the drumming of his pulse inside of his skull, but he didn’t give his eyes anytime to adjust. He stumbled into the cramped space and pulled the door to the cabinet under the sink open in an effort to retrieve the first aid kit. When his hand closed around the white box, he realized exactly how much blood he’d been losing. It drenched his hand, dripped from his fingers.

He sat the kit on the counter and flipped it open with a shaky, frantic hand, then took that same hand and wiped it as clean as he could on his pants.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He groaned as he worked to discard his clothes. Every move his torso made pulled and tugged at the wound causing it to pump more blood. He got his suit jacket off and ripped the buttons on his shirt to get it open. His vision doubled and blurred when he tried to assess the wound. He couldn’t focus. His right hand went to his back, checking for an exit wound. He was sure the bullet was still inside of him, but still, when he didn’t feel one, his trepidation increased.

“Okay… okay…” He pulled a towel off the towel rack behind him and stuffed it hard against the hole in his lower abdomen. “More pressure… pressure… it’s fine…”

He kept the towel pressed firm into the wound and rooted through the first aid kit with an unsteady hand, standing on unsteady legs. Things that he didn’t deem helpful were tossed aside, things that he didn’t need right away joined them, strewn about on the floor around his feet. Finally, his bloody fingers brushed against a large pair of long 12-inch, medical grade tweezers. He needed to get the bullet out.

He pulled the stopper in the sink and dumped the rest of the contents of the first aid kit out in the basin. A small bottle of alcohol and bunch of other supplies toppled out. He put the tweezers on the countertop and sat the alcohol next to it before he took a moment to brace his free hand against the countertop as well. He was woozy and off balance and needed to steady himself before he worked to open the alcohol with his one free hand. The cap spun off on the floor and he dumped half the contents of the bottle over the tweezers, letting the liquid spill down the countertop.

The strong scent of the alcohol burned his nose and brought him back to his senses. Hesitantly, slowly, he pulled the towel from the wound. As soon as the thick material left, the wound steadily pumped blood in time with his heartbeat.

He wiped his hands off on the towel, trying to get as much blood off of them as possible, then discarded the towel on the floor. With his right hand, he took the tweezers, with his left, he gripped the rim of the countertop, not to steel himself against the pain, but to help keep himself upright. His legs felt like led, and his head felt just as heavy. Pain wasn’t any of his concern.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled slow and steady as he dug the tweezers into the hole in his gut. He rooted around, went deeper, closed his eyes as he searched, as his body trembled.

When the tips of the tweezers connected with the bullet, the bullet slipped deeper inside of him.

“Fuck! Come on… come on…” Erik continued to dig inside of the cavity, chasing the bullet each time it shifted and slipped away. Finally, the tweezers closed around it and Erik squeezed them tight as he pulled the slug from his body.

As soon as the bullet was out, he let the tweezers slip from his hand to clatter against the tile floor. He turned to pull a second towel from the towel rack, but his legs weren’t steady or strong enough to hold him, and as he pulled the towel down, he felt himself pitching forward. His face connected with the wall hard, shocking him back to full consciousness in time to hear the towel rack hit the floor from where he’d inadvertently ripped it from the wall.

He was too tired, too dizzy. He pushed himself back upright, using the wall to help him get his feet back underneath him. He was mindful enough to wad up the clean towel and press it against the wound before he dragged himself back to the sink and rifled around the basin through the last of what he’d dumped out of the first aid kit. His fist closed over the needles and thread before he pushed back from the counter and shuffled over to the toilet. He sat down on top of the closed lid and let his head hang back for a moment while he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath to calm himself; he was panicking and that only served to increase his blood pressure and make him bleed out faster.

His hands were shaking as he switched their tasks, his left hand going to the towel to keep apply pressure, his right hand taking the needle and thread. He sat the needle on the countertop where he could reach it and unspooled a few feet of the black thread. He tore it off with his teeth and held the end of it in his mouth, working to twirl the tattered, torn end with his tongue before he set to work threading the needle.

He picked up the needle and again, but he needed both hands to thread it.

“…Fuck, fuck…” He took his hand from the towel and could feel the wound resume its steady trickle.

He held the needle and thread up close to his eyes, his vision growing more and more hazy with each second that ticked by. After a couple of tries, he was able to finally feed the thread through the eye of the needle. He doubled it and tied it at the end, then sat it down on the counter. The small effort of getting that thread through the needle had exhausted him.

He was bleeding too much.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm before he resumed clutching the towel to the wound. He had to be patient. He couldn’t rush it. He needed to get the bleeding to stop before he tried stitching himself up; if he kept gushing the way, there was no way he’d be able to see clearly enough or work quickly enough to stitch the wound shut. He had to be patient.

Erik closed his eyes and let his head lull backward again until it bumped against the wall behind the toilet tank. He kept the towel pressed firm into his gut while his knee bobbed anxiously and the bloody, sticky leg of his pants.

He had to be patient…


End file.
